


Your Way is So Far

by lunacosas



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Universe, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), Falling In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Huddling For Warmth, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunacosas/pseuds/lunacosas
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier have parted ways for the winter, even though it's not what either of them really wanted to do. Eskel, traveling north, bumps into Jaskier and invites him to come to Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 202
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge Winter 2020





	Your Way is So Far

**Author's Note:**

> I can only apologise.

The first snowfall feels colder than Geralt remembers it ever being, the silence heavier than he can bear. He trudges on at Roach’s side, letting her rest for this part of the journey, and watches the snow thicken around them, dulling the world. It is barely past noon, and yet the sky is filled with smothering grey-white, bringing with it an early dusk. He will not see the sun again today, nor perhaps tomorrow. He wonders, his gaze dipping, if he will see it again at all this winter. He knows the answer. The sun left him several days ago, the first gripping frost of the season signalling all too soon that he and Jaskier must part ways. Winter has come early this year, and promises to be long, and hard.

And lonely.

The coldness within him becomes heavy at the thought, guilt squeezing at his throat. He is never alone at Kaer Morhen, and yet he wishes for something more than ruined remnants to return to. He will find comfort, as he always does, with Eskel and Lambert, but after a long summer spent at Jaskier’s side, even the thought of Eskel’s touch cannot warm him. He would curse the bard for having taken even that from him, if only he thought he could bear the thought of living in a world in which Jaskier is gone. Another winter apart is hard enough.

It barely matters where he makes camp, so long as it is safe and Roach is sufficiently sheltered. Even through the snowfall he can catch the scent of a small town ahead, and half remembers it from decades ago. There is an inn, and warm food and ale to be had, along with a stable and dry bed. The tang of human habitation is warm against the frigid air, the faint smell of roasted pig discernible beneath the scent of humans and beasts.

Turning to the west, Geralt climbs away from the town, and up into the foothills. There is shelter and safety enough to be found in the forest.

-

The biting cold of winter has yet to tighten its grip this low in the valley, but Eskel can taste the coming change. The signs all point to a hard and bitter winter to come, and his eagerness to reach Kaer Morhen is only eclipsed by his temporary desire to find food. With his gaze averted and enough coin, it is easy to avoid scrutiny, especially in a small village where the people seem to find it hard to count high enough to realise the number of swords he carries at his back. Eskel finds himself looking forward to a good meal and a restful night, and makes his way into the tavern intent on enjoying both.

His first thought is that Geralt passed through here not ten days ago. He catches the familiar, soothing scent as he walks into the room, the warmth of it stirring his blood. Long, long months have passed since they last saw each other, and the reminder of how tantalisingly close they are to reuniting makes him forget his need for food, a hunger for something else taking its place. It ill behoves a Witcher to succumb to feelings while on the Path, but in that moment Eskel is weak.

Weak, and wanting.

He realises he has heard the words, heard them sung in an unexpectedly beautiful voice – one he might expect to find gracing a court or well-paying patrons in Novigrad, not a lowly tavern. The source isn’t hard to find. A beautiful man of about thirty, dressed in forget-me-not blue finery, works the strings of his lute with practiced ease, the bard comfortable enough not to be phased by the paltry audience. He sings with feeling, eyes falling closed as his tongue caresses the melancholy sweet lyrics, and Eskel finds himself captivated, holding himself in perfect stillness as he listens. Heartbreak has never sounded so beautiful.

And then he hears it, and wonders for a moment if he can trust his senses. The word sounds so much like ‘Geralt’ that he would stumble if he were standing. Well, Geralt always said Jaskier had a flair for dramatics and extreme hyperbole. He wonders what Geralt would say if he knew Eskel had come across the bard, because he now knows without a shadow of a doubt who the strikingly handsome man is. They must have parted ways a few days ago, because there is no trace of Geralt’s scent in the tavern beyond the remnants that linger on Jaskier – much of it Roach’s scent.

No wonder Geralt fell for him.

Eskel watches the bard, his heart choked and throat sore as he swallows thorns. Geralt’s song finishes and another song starts up, a livelier tune with a greater chance of pleasing the thin crowd. Jaskier moves with such grace and poise, his smile lighting up the room now. He realises why Geralt has been distant these last few years, harder and harder to reach with each passing winter at the keep. Eskel knew it was happening, could see the distance yawning between them, and now he truly understands why. He bows his head, mutters his thanks as his food is brought, and tells himself that this is a good thing. A moment is all he needs, a moment…

“So, what did you think?!”

He looks up, straight into devastatingly beautiful blue eyes. He is not certain when the music stopped. “I, um…”

“Be honest with me! Five words or less!”

Didn’t Geralt say Jaskier had asked him the very same thing on their first meeting?

“Hello, Jaskier.”

“I’m sorry, have we met?” There is a frown creasing Jaskier’s brow as he helps himself to the stool opposite Eskel, staring. “I’m sure I would remember a Witcher like— Oh!”

He can see the exact moment the coin drops, Jaskier’s eyes going wide. His focus shifts from Eskel’s scarred face to his swords, to the medallion not-quite-hiding at his neck and the form of his armour. Eskel finds his surprise hard to believe, no matter how genuine it seems. No one who has heard of him looks beyond the scars first and realises who he is second. 

“Eskel! I’ve heard so much about you!” A moment passes in which Jaskier settles even more comfortably at the table, and Eskel fears what is to come as the bard grins. “Well, actually, I haven’t. Geralt isn’t really one for talking. He’s mentioned you, though! And always fondly, although I think he would rather die than admit fondness for anyone or anything.”

“Did you truly not know who I was?”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says, waiving a hand airily. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied. With music.”

The last part is a lie. There is a crack in Jaskier’s smile when he looks at Eskel, so thin it is barely noticeable. Eskel sees it. He knows that, if he himself could smile a fully formed smile, the same crack would appear if anyone were to ask him if he were well in the weeks following his spring departure from Kaer Morhen.

“And there’s so much to do when I reach Oxenfurt. I’ve really missed the place.”

His eyes say something else. Eskel can see the longing in them that is for a person, not a place. He sees more than that. Jaskier envies him. The bard travels southwest to the coast, away from Geralt, while Eskel is heading northeast, towards him.

Bowing his head, Eskel stares at his food, letting Jaskier’s chatter about lesson plans and apartment redecoration wash over him. He knows what he is going to do, and the pain it will bring him, but it is the right thing to do for Geralt’s sake, and for Jaskier’s. Jaskier misses Geralt the way Eskel does, only, when they reach Kaer Morhen, Jaskier can actually have him. He is missed too. He is the reason for Geralt’s distracted longing, the reason the warmth of Eskel’s touch and the fervour of Lambert’s desire are no longer enough. There is no reason for Eskel to deny Geralt what goodness and happiness can be found in life, especially not when it takes such human, fleeting form. Some winters from now, Jaskier will be gone. Eskel will not deny either of them the time together they deserve.

The time to mourn his own loss will come later, in private. He already knew things were changing, that they were drifting apart, so it is not so much the surprise of the moment but the finality of it that causes a lump to rise in his throat. He looks up at Jaskier, at the handsome, beautiful man Geralt deserves.

“Why not come to Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier chokes mid-sentence, staring at Eskel. “Excuse me?”

“Why not—”

“—No, I heard what you said.” Jaskier licks his lips, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he combs his fingers through his hair. “I just…”

“Is there a reason you have not come before?”

“I lecture at the university during the winter, you see.” Jaskier’s whole demeanour has shifted, his gaze lowered as he now fidgets with the ornate hem of his doublet. “It keeps me, um, busy. But, uh… Well, the thing is... Geralt’s ever asked me.”

Eskel half knew that. Whenever asked where the bard was, and why he did not come, Geralt said Jaskier was busy lecturing, or teaching music, or with friends. The excuses seemed flat, and listless, and Eskel realises now that it is because they are worthless. In a heartbeat, Jaskier would trade anything to be by Geralt’s side.

“Did he say why?” Eskel presses.

“No, I just assumed…”

Eskel nods, realising he has barely eaten and yet his appetite has gone.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Jaskier presses, his voice soft and earnest.

“Like brothers.”

It pains Eskel to say it. They are more than brothers, beyond anything words have the power to describe. It is not something that can be understood by those who have no experience of it, so he settles for the lie that presses heavy against his chest. They are so, so much more than that.

Or, they were.

Whatever they are now, Eskel reminds himself not much will have changed – not really. He will love Geralt until the last breath has left his lips, and in his own way Geralt will love him too. Their loyalty to each other is unshakeable, and no power in the universe can diminish Eskel’s devotion. They will always have each other, in whatever way they are best able to give. It is more than Eskel knows he deserves.

“The journey is not easy, and once winter sets in it will not be possible to leave,” Eskel warns, before he gives Jaskier his reassurance. “But you would be welcome, should you wish to join us.”

“Are you sure?” He looks so hopeful in that moment, and so devastatingly beautiful as he gazes across at Eskel.

Eskel nods, attempting to prod himself into eating.

“Geralt won’t… mind?”

The mouthful of bread Eskel is chewing becomes unbearably dry and difficult to swallow. “No.” The word lingers between them, full of certainty, and yet Eskel decides to give it more weight. “He misses you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, a soft little sound accompanied by a vivid blush. “I wouldn’t want to intrude… You’re sure…?”

“I am.”

Jaskier regards him, holding Eskel’s gaze as if searching for something. His piercing blue eyes undress Eskel right down to his soul, examining him for a long, measured time before he is satisfied. His expression, for some reason, falls, his face the very picture of melancholy his earlier song conveyed.

And then the expression is wiped away, replaced with a grin. “Okay!” Jaskier beams, sitting up straight. “I would be honoured to join you.”

-

The few words Geralt has spoken over the years about Eskel don’t do the man justice. The impression Jaskier had been left with was of a good man and loyal Witcher, badly scarred after an unfortunate Child Surprise incident and, if Geralt was to be believed, superior in skill to even the White Wolf. Jaskier hadn’t believed the last part, hadn’t known where Eskel’s scars were, and wasn’t entirely sure if Geralt’s praise stemmed from the truth or his own inflated impression of the other Witcher. Now, after three days travelling with Eskel, Jaskier knows every word is true. Probably. He hasn’t seen Eskel fight, so can’t compare that boast, but he is an adept hunter, and is kind beyond measure. He lets Jaskier ride most of the day, walking beside him and actively listening, chatting and laughing along as they travel, and at the first town they’d reached he’d insisted on making sure Jaskier had suitable clothing for the winter ahead. He shares generously, giving rather than passively allowing Jaskier to take, as Geralt does. There’s a gentleness to him which most would never expect to find in someone with such an imposing build, never mind a Witcher, but Jaskier sees it in the way Eskel tends to his horse, the way he offers Jaskier a steadying hand as he clambers gracelessly down after too long in the saddle, and the way he smiles as Jaskier plays his lute and sings. He saw it when they first met, when Eskel extended the invitation in spite of what it meant to him personally, and Jaskier would be lying if he said he hadn’t fallen a little bit in love with him in that moment.

He tells himself not to fall in love completely, because Eskel is already spoken for. Some things don’t need to be said out loud to be heard, and how Geralt and Eskel feel about each other is one of those things. They’re lucky, Jaskier thinks, ignoring the little twist of envy, the reminder that he’s somehow less. He’s glad they have each other, that their loneliness isn’t absolute. It must be comforting to know that they can return to each other every winter, to someone who loves and understands them when the world does its best to hate and revile them, feeding on misconceptions and dark, twisted whispers. Jaskier knows he can’t compare. All he could offer, given the chance, is love and acceptance. He knows nothing of what it’s like to be a Witcher, to live and feel as one. His touch would only be skin deep, and both Geralt and Eskel need more than that.

There’s a song in there somewhere, but Jaskier’s fingers fall still. Eskel, walking alongside with the reins in his hand, looks up as Jaskier’s playing stops.

“I think I’ll walk for a bit,” Jaskier announces. “My arse is getting sore.”

There’s an almost imperceptible flicker in Eskel’s expression, and Jaskier knows him well enough by now to know that he’s not convinced by the lie. He says nothing, though, instead holding Midge steady and murmuring softly to her, rubbing her nose as Jaskier dismounts. Jaskier hits the ground a little harder than he’d like, taking a moment to secure his lute to the saddlebag and pull his cloak around him. The weather is colder now, snow dusting everything in sight, and Jaskier is still gazing idly at the glittering trees when he hears the clip of horseshoes on the hard ground and realises he needs to get moving.

“You’re not going to ride?” he asks, jogging the two and a half paces it takes to catch up to Eskel.

“No. Your hands are cold?”

Jaskier flexes his fingers, shrugging. “No.”

“You stopped playing.”

He almost seems disappointed.

Jaskier looks at Eskel, and smirks. “I could sing.”

He says it as he always does to Geralt, as a teasing threat, but Eskel’s reaction is different. He nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I would like that.”

And he would. His expression is relaxed and honest, and it makes Jaskier’s heart trip over itself. He lets his gaze become unfocused for a moment as he thinks, conjuring up a light-hearted tune, and drawing together silly lyrics to go with it.

“Witchers, Witchers, I’ve known a few.

I’ve seen them in action, so I’ll tell you what they do:

They give their horses silly names,

And suck at playing games,

But they’re all far more handsome than you.”

To Jaskier’s delight, Eskel bursts out laughing, the rich, warm sound echoing all around them. It makes something inside Jaskier melt, and he watches Eskel’s amusement, utterly transfixed by the beauty of it.

“You know,” Eskel grins, “we are not all as bad at Gwent as Geralt.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he teases.

Eskel chuckles. “You hold him in very high regard.”

Jaskier shrugs airily. “True, although I’m well aware of his flaws.”

Eskel’s expression becomes unexpectedly sombre, the look he gives Jaskier heavy with meaning: ‘ _and yet you love him anyway_ ’.

Jaskier tries to clear his throat, looking down. He’s not used to being seen through that easily, not when he wants something to remain hidden. Is he that transparent when it comes to Geralt?

The mood has shifted, and something prompts him to speak the words that are weighing on his tongue, in spite of his better judgement and the flush already burning his cheeks. “I’m glad you have each other.”

“I’m not—” Eskel interjects. “We don’t… It’s not like that.”

The denial makes Jaskier look back up, his jaw hitting the ground. He can’t help the way he stares. “You’re not…?”

“No.”

 _Not anymore_ , hangs, unspoken, in the air between them as Eskel looks fixedly ahead.

Jaskier watches him for several moments more, stunned by the revelation, dismayed by it. “I thought…”

Eskel turns to smile at him, a kind, gentle expression that’s still beautiful in spite of the scars marring his face. The sadness behind it breaks Jaskier’s heart. “Do not worry about it.”

They walk in silence, Jaskier too lost in thought to be worthwhile company. Eskel seemed to hear the apology Jaskier wanted to give, and gently pushed it away. There is nothing more to say. Jaskier walks ploddingly beside the man he thought was Geralt’s lover, the man he thought was content to let Jaskier intrude on their time together just for one winter. Jaskier hadn’t planned on doing much intruding. He’d told himself that being close to Geralt would be enough.

But now, with Eskel admitting that—

“Wait!” he breathes, the plea crushed from his lungs by a near violent realisation. “You don’t think we’re…? That Geralt and I are together?”

The world stills as Eskel stops, Jaskier’s breath coming hard as he bares himself to the Witcher.

“We’re not,” he rushes to say. “There’s never been anything between us. He’s never shown any interest in me.”

Eskel seems surprised at that. “But you would, if he did?”

Jaskier is sure that the way his cheeks burn is answer enough to Eskel’s question. “Yes.”

And then Eskel smiles that beautiful, heartbreaking smile again, the scars deepening as the light playing on them shifts. “Well, you are only human.”

Snorting softly at the soft, teasing words, Jaskier has to agree: “Yeah.”

The back of Eskel’s hand lightly swats his upper arm, the thickness of the cloak dampening the touch to barely a bump. “Come on.” The tension breaking, Eskel starts walking again. “It is going to snow soon.”

Jaskier looks up at the gathering clouds, shuffling after Eskel. Music rises up in his throat as he falls into step, and he allows himself to hum and then sing as the pair make their way further north along the road.

-

The previous nights were far milder than the one fast approaching, and Eskel considers the sparse firewood available, deciding to leave the path and head further into the woods. Pickings are still slim, but with Jaskier’s help there is soon enough fuel to at least cook a meal, and they sit down to clean the bones of a hare, oats and mushrooms adding to the stew they make. After that, the fire dies quickly, and they make no attempt to rebuild it, even though the daylight is almost all gone.

“We will move on if it gets too cold,” Eskel says, picking an adequate spot and clearing it of snow that has fallen between the trees.

“I need to get _some_ sleep first,” Jaskier complains, although his words are at odds with his actions, which are at odds with everything Eskel has ever come to expect of humans. Without any hint of fear or revulsion whatsoever, Jaskier picks the spot right next to Eskel and settles down.

It is pragmatic to stay close, to share warmth, but nothing in the world could have prepared Eskel for someone being this willing to approach him. Jaskier wriggles closer, and with a simple “do you mind?” he is pressed against Eskel’s side. Eskel has no recollection of agreeing, but now that Jaskier is this close there is no way he is going to push him away. The smell of him is familiar now, soothing, and still bears the faintest traces of Geralt. Eskel allows himself to relax at the warmth his closeness brings, holding still as Jaskier presses even closer. “Cold?” he wonders.

“Hmm, yeah, a little.”

“I could look for more firewood.”

“Nah. I’m, uh…” and with that, Jaskier pulls back just enough to grin at Eskel, “taking advantage. Don’t tell anyone.”

He cannot help but snort at that, unsure how such ridiculousness can be so charming. There is danger to it, sweetness and playfulness threatening to draw him in. “Your secret is safe with me,” he says. “For a fee.”

“A fee? What’ll it cost?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Eskel shifts, and realises that the spikes on his armour are barely padded by the cloak Jaskier has laid over them. He pauses, and then lifts his arm. Jaskier slides into the space he creates without Eskel needing to invite him, and the warmth in Eskel’s body turns to fierce heat. “Is this better?” he barely dares to ask, hearing his own voice betray how ruined the simple closeness has left him.

“Much,” Jaskier murmurs, his hand slipping across Eskel’s stomach as if to embrace him.

It does not get far.

Jaskier goes completely still, his body rigid with unease as he reacts to the hitch in Eskel’s breath, the fierce tension that seizes his muscles.

“Eskel?”

It is too dark for Jaskier to see, but not for Eskel, for a Witcher.

“Have you forgotten what I look like?” he breathes, his words almost a hiss. “What I am?”

“No. Why would that—?”

Movement returning to his body, Jaskier props himself, almost leaning over Eskel. It causes a chill to slip between them, making Eskel shiver.

“Neither what you are nor how you look bother me, Eskel. What you are is comforting, and how you look…”

He wavers, lashes lowered to cheeks that visibly darken, even in the poor light Eskel has to see him by. Jaskier smells of warmth and spice, his breath catching in his throat for a moment.

“How you look is actually rather pleasing, if I’m being honest.”

Lost, unsure of himself, Eskel clings to the truth he knows. “People have no desire to be close to a Witcher.”

“You sound like Geralt.”

And, beneath the forceful tone of his voice, Jaskier sounds hurt.

“I’m going to lie down again,” he tells Eskel, mercifully unable to discern the hurt Eskel feels too, or the confusion. Locked in turmoil, Eskel remains silent as Jaskier does as he said he would, adding with a falsely light tone: “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

He wants to reassure him that he does not have to, that Eskel longs for that touch and wishes his reactions had not betrayed him, but his jaw remains clenched firmly shut. Rationally, it is because the man close by his side is spoken for, even if Geralt has yet to say the words. Jaskier is the White Wolf’s bard, the man he loves and is loved by. Eskel is, at best, a helping hand bridging the distance between them. He is nothing more than an interloper, with no right to give or receive affection from Jaskier.

From the dark, bruised depts of his heart, though, an old fear has crept out, invited by Jaskier’s touch. In darkness, Eskel has been told that he is tolerable. Come morning, he has always been hideous again. Jaskier’s relationship with Geralt aside, Eskel does not think he can endure the pain of that rejection, not from someone whose company he has come to enjoy so dearly.

So he lies there, letting Jaskier fuss and settle, and permits himself to find comfort in the warmth Jaskier radiates, and nothing else.

-

The morning comes quickly, and with a biting chill that threatens to settle deep within Eskel’s bones. He shakes it off, stamping his feet to warm them as Jaskier shivers and chatters back into wakefulness.

“I hate the cold,” the bard mutters, crowding the flame Eskel offers in his palm. “Thank you.”

They move with as much speed as they can muster in the bitter predawn chill, breaking camp and setting out more in shuffles than in steps. They walk to begin with, eating breakfast as they go, and when Jaskier is warm enough to stop shivering and can climb into the saddle he takes the first turn to ride. He dismounts a short while later, as soon as he is cold again, landing gracelessly on numb feet. Eskel catches him before he stumbles, bearing his weight for a moment too long. Jaskier, for some reason, lingers a moment longer, looking up at Eskel with an open, and yet utterly unreadable, expression. He is calm, and unafraid, like the night before, but more than that, something in his gaze betrays a hunger that is beyond misplaced, his eyes slipping from Eskel’s inhuman stare to the mess of scarring at his mouth.

Eskel lets go slowly. Jaskier exhales raggedly, thanking Eskel once again as he sorts his cloak.

“No need to mention it,” Eskel replies, his voice gruff as he turns away and mounts Midge.

That look sticks with him, the moment playing over and over in his mind. He tries to find in it nothing more than kindness, merely a generous soul not treating him as a monster, but the warmth felt deeper than that, the flutter of Jaskier’s heartbeat rooting that odd look of longing firmly in reality. It… makes no sense…

And yet, Jaskier readily smiles up at him when Eskel looks down, blue eyes shining thanks to the snow all around them, offsetting the flush of his cheeks.

“You okay?” the bard asks, and all Eskel can do is nod.

“Sorry I can’t play for you.”

Eskel is rather sorry too.

“I can sing, though?”

In spite of himself, a smile tugs at Eskel’s lips. Taking it as permission, Jaskier lights up the world around them with his voice, the tune achingly beautiful, the lyrics telling a heartbreaking song of ill-fated love. Eskel listens, wondering what inspired the choice, and is in half a mind to ask when something catches his attention.

A frown creases Jaskier’s brow, the song fading.

“Eskel?”

Leaning over the side, Eskel peers at the ground, staining his senses and willing his heart to remain steady.

“What—?”

“Geralt came this way.”

Jaskier’s soft ‘oh’ of surprise is just as loud as if he’d yelled his excitement.

“A day ago,” Eskel adds, looking around to try and answer the glaring question: why had he not picked up on Geralt’s trail earlier? He pulls at Midge’s reins, turning her, scanning the immediate area for answers. He finds it in the twist of a branch, the way the grass at the edge of the road has been bent and disturbed by more than just the weight of snow. It is a strange place for someone to join the road, although perhaps a contract took Geralt off course.

“Can we catch up to him?” Jaskier breathes, watching Eskel impatiently for his answer.

The road ahead is well-traveled, worn. Even covered with snow, the footing is sure.

“We should swap,” Eskel decides, swinging down from the saddle. “If he is not traveling fast, we will reach him tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s excitement is tangible, his breathlessness endearing. “Let’s go then!”

Picking up the pace, they set off again with renewed purpose.

-

Progress has been slow, although Geralt cannot find it within himself to mind. His meandering path towards Kaer Morhen was not intentional, as such, but he is aware enough to understand that it reflects a reluctance within himself, something almost bordering on unease. He does not know how to greet Eskel or Lambert when he sees them again. Something painful has hardened within his chest, tempered by the biting winds of the winter storms blowing down off the high mountains and each trudging step he has taken, and he is sure that they will see it and know that something has changed. He does not know how to explain something so simple and yet so profoundly intricate as lamenting the loss of someone he has never had, and will see again soon. Jaskier has not gone from this world – and hopefully will not die for many, many years to come – but he is gone from Geralt’s for a time, and with each passing winter the distance becomes harder to bear.

“What has become of me, Roach?” he wonders.

Roach snorts, tossing her head, and he leans forward to pat her neck.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

His only comfort as Roach plods her way along the track is that Jaskier is somewhere warmer, perhaps having caught passage on a ship heading downriver to Oxenfurt. He may already be back at the city, flinging himself into the gaiety of it, dressing gaudily, singing merrily, and enthusiastically bedding all the most beautiful men and women who cross his path. There will be stories enough to keep him talking all through summer, and Geralt bows his head as he thinks of the adventures Jaskier is likely to be having. The thought of turning Roach around, heading West until he reaches the sea, tugs at him. The picture in his mind of Jaskier’s smile and the mild winter sun on his hair leaves him breathless, blinding away the cold that stings his eyes. Jaskier has never asked, never invited him to spend winter at Oxenfurt, and even if he did Geralt could not go. His place is not there, it is at Kaer Morhen, with what family he has left.

His own world and Jaskier’s are like day and night, the sun and the moon. They cannot truly inhabit the same sphere. The friendship they share is stolen in twilight, and in the fragile moments before dawn, when darkness and light may share the sky. He does not want Jaskier to share his world, not truly, because that means condemning him to darkness, and contaminating him with even fouler things than what he has seen and endured already. He will never tie or bind Jaskier to himself, and will never ask that of him, because his hope is that Jaskier will always walk away. Every winter they part, he knows they still inhabit their separate worlds. He has not ruined the one truly beautiful thing that graces his life.

It shows how weak and selfish he is that he wants to, that he longs to grasp Jaskier, holding him close, clinging to the light and warmth Jaskier radiates without even realising it. He knows his own touch would tarnish and dull everything he loves about Jaskier, causing it to fade until there is nothing left, only an empty husk. He was taken and shaped to a violent purpose, formed into a living weapon. His task is to kill, to do it quickly, and to do it well. His hands are roughened by the sword, stained by blood and viscera, weathered by more seasons than any man will ever live to see. His body is littered with the scars of monsters, hardened by years alone on the Path.There is no gentleness to be found there, no matter how much he might long to give it. His heart is inhuman like the rest of him, unsuited to things like tenderness.

And Jaskier deserves tenderness. He deserves love and devotion, kindness, a ready smile and a generous nature that can match his own. Geralt hopes he finds it. He hopes someone out there can give Jaskier all the things Geralt wishes he could.

With a heavy sigh, Geralt looks ahead. He has come this way countless times before, and remembers the path. At a desperate pace, he could reach Kaer Morhen in under two days. The journey would usually take four. He estimates it will take him another five, maybe six, and longer if he strays from his current path. The thought is tempting. The way is used heavily enough to be sure of seeing at least two people each day, and even with his hood raised and gaze averted, Geralt prefers not to run the risk of becoming the focus of anyone’s attention. A small village a short distance away keeps him on the track, a place where he can buy feed for Roach before disappearing back into white nothingness. He resolves to go as far as the village, and then diverge from the main path at the fork some distance beyond it.

He never makes it to the fork in the road.

At first, he thinks nothing of the approaching travellers. Their pace speaks of purpose, so he picks a line on the right of the track and expects them to soon pass. He does not expect the details that make themselves known, confusing him, because he can understand the presence of a Witcher on this path, but in the company of a human riding with him? He can hear the horse’s hooves, the trot that is matched with effortless ease by someone he knows so well, and he halts Roach, turning to face whatever trouble is coming. There is no reason for Eskel to hasten towards him in the company of another. Geralt holds himself in readiness to reach for his sword, to throw himself into action.

Nothing can prepare him for what comes round the gentle curve in the track. The breath is crushed from him with the force of a bruxa slamming into his chest, his thoughts scattering.

 _Jaskier_.

Beautiful, foolish, wonderful, perfect Jaskier, riding a sturdy black mount and beaming from ear to ear, calling out Geralt’s name when he sees him. Eskel has slowed, holding back, and Geralt’s senses spin at the wrongness of Jaskier being here, on the path to Kaer Morhen, not heading towards the coast.

“Jas—?”

The smile Jaskier gives brightens up the world, banishing the slowly encroaching darkness. He slows the horse to a walk, coming alongside carefully so that he might fling his arms around Geralt, squeezing him as if it has been years since they last met, not days.

“I missed you,” Jaskier murmurs, his face pressed against Geralt’s neck in a way that makes his heart pick up its pace and stumble. He smells strange, like—

Roach, in that moment, takes a dislike to the horse crowding against her side. She snaps, driving the mare away and, because he’s holding on so tightly, leaving Jaskier behind.

“Oh!” Jaskier laughs, giving a squeal and a giggle as the horse slips from under him. His weight is hung around Geralt’s neck, and Geralt scowls, pulled by it.

“Jaskier, let go,” he bites out, snapping with more ferocity than Roach did as he tries to quell the storm that has surged into life within him. Jaskier is pulling him down too.

“I’ve got you,” he hears, Eskel’s voice warm in a way Geralt does not remember hearing outside of their winters together. The other Witcher appears behind Jaskier, taking his weight in an embrace that Jaskier surrenders to. Geralt’s nose wrinkles as he is let go, Jaskier is busy finding his feet, Eskel helping him. They smell of each other, of closeness. It hurts. It hurts far more than he could ever have expected it to, and Roach fusses in sympathy beneath him.

“What are you doing here?”

His barbed question is directed at Jaskier, but Eskel is the one who answers: “We came across each other as I was travelling north, and I thought I would invite him.”

“Yeah, and you’ll never guess how it happened!” Jaskier chimes in, still grinning. Geralt is sure that he will hear the story, even though he very much does not want to. “Well, I’ll tell you later, because first I need to ask why you never told me more about your brothers?! You could have at least mentioned that Eskel actually has, unlike you, an appreciation for fine music.”

He snorts at that, staring down at them, holding Roach steady as she tries to step away. The universe is cruel. He looks from the man he thought he wanted to the Witcher he thought he wanted to avoid, and finds his heart aching for both, twisting as he realises he can have neither.

“Hey,” Eskel says softly, taking a pace forward. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he lies, and then swings down from the saddle with false surety. The embrace Eskel gives him is too swift to evade, too confusing, and the soft sigh that escapes the other Witcher’s lip worsens his turmoil. “I caught word there might be a job in the next valley. I was going to check it out,” he decides to say.

“But we just met up!” Jaskier is quick to protest.

Eskel, having pulled back to barely an arm’s length from Geralt, grips at him. “Wolf?”

Hardening himself against the question, against the vulnerability in it as Eskel softens his tone to little more than a whisper, Geralt meets his gaze. “I will catch up with you.”

“No,” Eskel says firmly. “It is late. You will not get there before nightfall. Camp with us, and set out in the morning.”

It would make sense to do as Eskel suggests, if only he were not running from his own heart, from the pain it brings him to look into Eskel’s eyes and realise that he still loves him as much as he ever did. He will always love him, even though he somehow wants Jaskier too, and the bard’s presence both brings him untold joy and crushes him. He let Eskel slip from him, winter by winter, and never dared to let himself have Jaskier.

And now they have each other.

He tells himself that he is happy for them. Content. It is another lie.

He looks at Eskel and sees that there is hurt within him too. His care for Geralt never faded. Geralt has thrown it all away.

“Are we, um, you know…?” Jaskier asks, his voice pushing through the tension. “Because I’m hungry. Please tell me we can have a fire.”

With a sigh, Eskel turns away first. As he does, something within Geralt breaks. He hides within his cloak and armour, concealing the fracture that runs through his very being as he climbs back onto Roach.

“There is a good place to camp a little further along,” Eskel is telling Jaskier. “Do you want to ride again?”

“No, I’ll walk.”

They set off, with Geralt in reluctant tow. Eskel walks too, leaving Geralt towering above them, alone.

-

The spot they pick to camp is close to a small lake, enclosed by pines and almost warm with the way the towering trunks hold the echoes close. Jaskier looks up at the darkening sky watching a flurry of snowfall disturbed by the wind shower down towards him. It’s peaceful. It would be perfect, if only he could understand why Geralt is so against him being here, and why Eskel insists he doesn’t turn around to head for the coast before it’s far too late. He knows he’s intruding. He wants out. He can find someone else somewhere else to comfort him – Melitele knows there would be plenty willing to warm his bed, to chase away the longing he feels for someone he can’t have, even if it’s only for a handful of moments.

Someone.

What a fucking joke.

He dumps the wood he’s found on the generous pile they’ve already made, trying not to look towards either Witcher. Geralt is making a poor show of meditating – Jaskier can tell he’s not really focusing – and Eskel is building up the fire. They’ve already eaten, and it was a passable meal, but the company was poor. Geralt had been closed off, wrapped up in himself and unable to look at Jaskier without making him feel like he’d caused every wrong that had ever befallen Geralt in his life. Eskel was kinder, at least, sitting close and chatting idly about one time they’d found a Drowner frozen in the nearby lake. In spite of his reassurance that there aren’t any there now, Jaskier determines to avoid the water.

Eskel reaches out a beckoning hand. “Come get warm,” he invites, and Jaskier drifts helplessly towards him, flopping to the ground with more force than he intended. He hides the wince well enough.

“Wasn’t really cold.”

“Let me see your hands.”

Eskel takes them in his own, the thick, worn leather of his gloves warm, the brush of his thumb cool against the back of Jaskier’s hand.

“We should have got you some better gloves.”

Probably, yes, but Jaskier isn’t really thinking about that right now. He’s thinking more about Eskel and Geralt, about himself and Geralt, and the mess he’s gotten himself into. He wouldn’t have agreed to come if he knew it would be like this. A whole winter spent trapped like this suddenly seems like a death sentence. His heart can’t bear it.

Eskel’s hands withdraw, and he picks something up – the skins from the hares that had been part of their meal. After a moment of inspecting the white fur, he seems content. “This should do.”

“Do? What?” And then Jaskier decides he’s far less interested in whatever is going on now than he is in the long, long winter ahead. “Eskel, is he…?”

His question fades to nothing. Eskel knows what he’s asking anyway. “He will be fine. It will be okay.” And then, no doubt because Geralt is probably listening to them, Eskel changes the topic again. “Can you play something for me?”

“Um, sure?” His lute rests in its case within easy reach, not too close to the fire so that the change in temperature can’t damage it. He leans for it, pulling it close. The strings have become a little untuned, and he corrects them. “Anything in particular?”

Eskel nods, beginning to stand. He leans in close, bending down to answer. “Erryn’s Reill.”

He knows the tune, a beautiful piece of old music not often played, because there are other songs people would rather dance to now. He looks up, wanting to ask why, but the look Eskel gives him makes him stay his tongue.

Instead, he plucks at the first few notes, watching as Eskel moves away.

His attention returns abruptly to the fire so fast it makes his neck hurt when he sees Eskel approach Geralt and extend a hand in invitation. They murmur too softly or him to hear anything other than the tone of their voices, Eskel persuading, Geralt resisting. Eskel wins. He leads Geralt closer to the fire and, hand in hand, they dance in a way Jaskier has never seen before. He gives up trying not to look. There’s something captivating about watching such powerful men move with such graceful intention, their hands not holding weapons, their intention not to defeat any foe. They move in perfect harmony, Geralt’s expression losing some of the tension and deep creases it held, Eskel’s relaxed and open, his devotion to Geralt plain to see.

Jaskier looks away again, missing a note and feeling himself burn with the embarrassment of it. He curses silently, withering inside as he realises exactly what he can’t compare to. He doesn’t belong here, with them. Come morning, he’ll leave.

-

The distance seems smaller now, more bearable. Eskel hopes it is easier to bridge, because the moment he saw Geralt again, and the way he had reacted to Jaskier, he had known that they were both close to losing him, Jaskier probably forever. There is nothing a human can do if a Witcher decides to cut and run.

“Jaskier,” he calls out, and the bard looks up from where he has hidden himself in his music. He seems so small, like he is trying to take up less space. It strikes Eskel as so out of character it is painful to see.

Geralt, having relaxed somewhat, tenses again.

“Come here,” Eskel tells Jaskier, tightening his grip on Geralt.

The hesitation is as plain as day. “But the song…”

“Sing it instead.”

He likes to think that it is trust that makes Jaskier accept his request, switching from lute to voice, tucking the instrument back into its case. Shakily, he gets to his feet, humming the tune, and Geralt tries to take a step back. Eskel does not let him go.

“Come join us.

The humming stops. “I don’t know the dance.”

No one does, not really. It is something he, Geralt and Lambert have taken and made their own, dancing within set steps that borrow heavily from their training. 

“We will show you.”

Geralt makes a small noise. “There is no need to force him if he does not want to—”

“Stop it,” Eskel interjects, before turning his focus away from Geralt again. “Come on, Jaskier. We want you here.”

By his side, Geralt goes oddly still, even as Jaskier insists: “I don’t want to intrude.”

Without speaking again, Eskel holds his free hand out, the other slipping lower to take Geralt’s, lacing their fingers together. He hears the hitch of breath, understands the meaning in it, the reassurance that he has not lost Geralt completely, and tension he did not even realise he was holding leaves his body. When Jaskier’s fingers brush against his own, it sends a warm cascade of sparks through Eskel’s body.

“Take Geralt’s hand too.”

There is hesitance on both their parts, and neither because they truly do not want to do this. They are tentative, unsure of themselves, but there is no denying the truth of what they want, and just how badly they long to root their friendship in something deeper.

“Good,” he breathes, and as their fingers interlace, he loosens his own grip on them both, withdrawing.

Simultaneously, his hands are gripped tight, both men turning to stare at him with a mixture of confusion and dismay. “Don’t…” Geralt breathes, seeming wounded.

“Eskel—”

It is time to let go.

“You know,” Eskel says, slipping from Geralt’s hold, “you are both more than worthy of each other.”

It is easier to pull away from Jaskier’s touch, because he has gone lax with surprise. He takes half a step back, and sighs gently to himself, even though a chill causes him to shiver.

“Right, so the first step—”

“—What the fuck?!”

“— _Eskel!_ ”

Jaskier’s shriek is loud enough to disturb the wildlife, Geralt’s growl causing the hair on the back of Eskel’s neck to stand up. He stares at them in the firelight, knowing things are simple. Their hands remain firmly clasped together as they stand shoulder to shoulder, glaring at him.

“What is going on?” Geralt asks.

“You have no idea?”

“No idea of what?” Jaskier challenges, and then lets go of Geralt’s hand with such abrupt ferocity he almost throws it. “That I’m coming between you? That I shouldn’t even be here? That I don’t belong, I can’t compare, I’ll never have what you have? Trust me, I know, and I’m not doing this.”

Eskel’s face falls as Jaskier turns back towards the blazing fire, rigid with pain. That was never his intention. “Jaskier…”

“Fuck sakes, Eskel,” Geralt adds. “I do not give a flying fuck if you two wish to spend the winter together, just do not bring me into it.”

“Why the fuck do you think he is here?” Eskel wonders.

“Because you asked him.”

“Because you did not!”

“Yeah, still here,” Jaskier reminds them. “Save it for when I’m gone.” His sitting close to the fire – too close – and keeps his back to them. “And for the record, Geralt doesn’t want me here. That’s why he never asked.”

“No, that’s not…” Geralt breathes, wavering. At length, he crosses to the fire, sinking down at Jaskier’s side. “The keep is no place for anyone but a Witcher. You do not belong there.”

“What, because I’m weak?” Jaskier snorts.

“Because you are not a tainted, ruined thing.”

He hears Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath, his own heart falling as he hears what Geralt still thinks of himself as.

“Well, neither are you,” Jaskier says firmly, and Eskel is beyond grateful for the sort of person he is. “So pick another excuse.”

Geralt is silent, the fire crackling loudly as a log gives way. The embers fall just short of Jaskier’s knee.

“You know,” Eskel adds, crossing to Jaskier’s free side. He takes a seat there. “You are not coming between us.”

“How’d you figure that one?” Jaskier huffs.

The whole night stretches out before them, the darkness content to let them bicker and talk round and round in circles until the day breaks. Eskel sees no point in it, and no end either if they continue as they are. “Wolf,” he says. “You like him, right?”

The way Geralt pierces him with his gaze is answer enough.

“And I like you as well, Jaskier, so it is more that I am coming between you two. I knew when I invited you to come to Kaer Morhen how this would end.”

Jaskier looks up at him with a sharpness to his gaze that ought not to be possible in a human, his mouth gently parted, lips caressing an unvoiced question: “You…?”

“Jaskier, if you want to be with Eskel—”

Geralt is stopped short by Jaskier’s groan, the bard turning from Eskel thumping against Geralt, dropping his weight against his armour. “You’re _ridiculous_ ,” Jaskier complains. “Both of you.”

He says it still flopped against Geralt, and Geralt, too stunned to do what he really ought to and embrace Jaskier, can only stare.

“I like you both,” Jaskier sighs, “so can we _please_ figure something out so I can kiss at least one of you.”

“But you and Eskel...?” Geralt asks, looking and sounding as if the connection between his mouth and his thoughts has been severed.

Jaskier sits back up, huffing at Geralt and holding his weight just long enough to refocus where he directs it. Eskel watches, warmth flooding through him as Jaskier kisses Geralt in answer, pressing in with all the earnestness of years’ worth of unanswered longing. He can see in the way the tension breaks how long Geralt has been denying them both. As Geralt’s hand comes up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, he averts his gaze, turning it back towards the fire.

“Hey.”

It is Geralt who calls to him, holding his gaze with gentle warmth as he reaches out and then, with Jaskier half pinned between them, leans in and kisses Eskel.

“I missed you.”

Both the words and Geralt’s actions cause a lump to rise in Eskel’s throat, robbing him of the ability to speak. He nods, aware of how close Jaskier is as he manages to find his tongue again. “I missed you too, Wolf.”

“Um, Eskel?”

His attention shifts to Jaskier, to those breathtaking blue eyes that glitter with warmth in the firelight. He is looking at Eskel with all the longing Eskel imagines he would show Geralt, as open and honest as he was this morning when Eskel caught him in his arms. It had confused him then, and it still confuses him now, but there is no denying the sincerity of the desire Jaskier wears so unashamedly for all to see.

His kiss, it turns out, is as sweet as honey, gentle but firm, not even the hideousness of Eskel’s scars deterring him. There is such newness in it, a spark that makes Eskel gasp as Jaskier presses in, licking at Eskel’s lower lip and gently sucking on it, making it clear he wants so, so much more

Eskel is not sure how to answer, remaining silent as Jaskier pulls back and gazes warmly up at him. Tentatively, Geralt leans in too, wrapping an arm around Jaskier and letting his other hand slip into Eskel’s. He is shaking.

“Is this really okay?” Geralt wonders.

In unison, Eskel and Jaskier turn towards him. As one, they pull Geralt closer and show him that yes, it is okay – more than okay. Eskel can scarcely believe it himself, but he knows now that the road ahead of them lies Kaer Morhen, and a long and happy winter together.


End file.
